


glimpses of the tarnish'd sky

by dustywings



Category: Tomb Raider & Related Fandoms, Tomb Raider (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11621184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustywings/pseuds/dustywings
Summary: 'Don’t die.’Her plea is catastrophic, and you regret the day you ever met this woman.‘I won’t.’She glances away. She canfeelyour lies.Like embers, stretched across her lungs, slowly suffocating her.‘Then,’ she sighs, as if repeating words she’s said recently, ‘Stoptryingto.’





	glimpses of the tarnish'd sky

**Author's Note:**

> I have known Lara since the '90s, when I was a little girl, so it's weird to finally write about her. If I'm honest, I do prefer the latest portrayal of her character. I'm totally absorbed in the first PS4 Tomb Raider game. Amazing character development, and what a _tragic_ reboot.
> 
> This is set immediately after the game, and, therefore, pre-Rise Of The Tomb Raider. I wanted to delve into the inevitable PTSD both Lara and Sam would suffer. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy.

Nowadays, it is easier to sleep with a drink in your hand.

The taste isn’t so much what _thrills_ you. It’s what comes afterwards. At first, the alcohol stings your lips. Bruised and cut, still sore, and in need of medical aid. Your _body_ needs attention. After all, your skin is broken. Wounds remain open, sometimes pouring with fresh blood. The headaches are growing more intense. You are tired, and frightened, and you vomit every morning as if _trying_ to _erase_ the memory gnawing your insides. 

A part of you wants to die.

But you can only picture the disappointment your Father would _glare_ at you, and shrink away from the idea. 

Their faces are a cloud in your vision. You can recall each one. And there are _hundreds_. The men and women you killed, brutally savaged. That _beast_ on that island, the _creature_ you were born into; oh, fuck, it just wasn’t _you_. It is obvious you need to learn how to forgive–to _forgive yourself_. Don’t let the guilt win. After all the bullets, surely it wouldn’t be _guilt_ which rips out your heart, and _crushes_ it in its hideous claws.

Justice would give you a name. A new name. Beautiful, and glittering, and a burden on your damaged soul.

_Murderer_. 

So, you drink the entire bottle. Then another. Another. Always, another. Until four bottles just isn’t enough, and you have to _drown_ yourself. You _need_ to collapse. It is the only way you can stop thinking, and for your world to darken around you, and for your body to _give up_. You want the alcohol to _burn_ your liver, singe your guts, and _paralyse_ your heart. You want to be found on the floor, dead, everything that you are, spilt across the wooden floor.

‘Don’t die.’

Her plea is catastrophic, and you regret the day you ever met this woman.

‘I won’t.’

She glances away. She can _feel_ your lies. 

Like embers, stretched across her lungs, slowly suffocating her.

‘Then,’ she sighs, as if repeating words she’s said recently, ‘Stop _trying_ to.’

* * *

Student life doesn’t feel like a real possibility anymore. The things you could write about! _You’re driven mad with it all_. The things you _can_ write about. You scour through the unimaginable amount of books and research papers you have collected over the years, sick to your stomach. 

How many of these so-called doctors and professors have had to _kill_ in order to obtain their knowledge? How many of these doctors and professors have witnessed hell?

You’re not an angry person. You’re soft, passionate, and simply curious.

Or, _should_ be. 

Would _have_ been.

It’s late, or _early_ to be exact, when you realise you have to go back.

Not to the island. _Never_. But that life, that Lara you met, you _have_ to go back to her. She’s like ice, a tomb you’re desperate to unravel, and you need to know _more_ about her. What _is_ she? _Why_ are you and her so far apart? 

You _are_ angry. You are upset. 

A friend eventually has the courage to look you in the eye, and say–

Something is _wrong_. 

* * *

Your injuries, your mind, _everything_ , seeps that same evening. You hate the smell. Your wounds _leak_ with a thickish substance, and blood spurts from the cuts. On nights like these, you wrap yourself up in sheets, and can do nothing but cry. 

* * *

‘Look at me. _Look at me_.’

She still does, in exactly the same way. Looks at you as if she owes you her life, looks at you as if you’ve made a _mess_ of everything, and there is no way out. She looks at you, terror pouring from her eyes, frantically trying to breathe, her throat closing in, her paranoia going mad, her body shaking, and this is not the first time.

Neither of you are able to forget. You killed men, and she became a God.

The thing you have both _done_.

It happens unexpectedly. One second, Sam is okay–or, pretends to be, because the two of you are so _good_ at pretending–until the next second. The next second when it all comes _screaming back at her_. When she panics, when her body _fights_ off the horror and _ugliness_ filling her head, and when it’s clear, all too clear, she didn’t return home completely herself.

Remnants of the Sun God survive in her. Corroding her slowly. 

You’re losing her.

She looks at you, and you hold her face in your hands, 

and that is when your heart breaks.

Sharp, unforgivable shards; mirroring the tears scorching down your cheeks. She reaches out for you, her fingers slip on your jacket, and she _clutches_ to you. Something wounded and scared and just _too young_. 

Traffic races by. Pedestrians don’t notice, or care.

You both forget you’re back in the real world now. A world which has no _fucking_ clue.

‘I’m sorry,’ you whisper.

Reyes was right: the fault is on _you_.

* * *

_A tiny girl. Delicate, like flower petals. Doom tracing your path while you run._

_News travels quick. Lord Croft has arrived home, if only for a brief period._

_When you dash into his arms, he holds you up, his prize, his favourite, and smiles. A fool, crowning you with all of his ash and burdens and misery, and you_ **_love_ ** _him._

* * *

_You love him all the more when he roars over the death of your Mother._

_Grabs the pistol, shoves it in his mouth–_  

* * *

Sam goes away for a while. Really, she needs to. _She needs to get away._

She promises to write, but you once promised to save her life, and, so, now, promises are meaningless between you both. You want to touch her. It’s a _need_ you haven’t suffered before, and your body might just _shut down_ if you can’t _touch_ her. Feel her beneath your palm. 

While you watch her retreating back, you’re consumed with the nightmare she won’t come home.

Without _you_ to save her, who else will?

It’s a mistake for her to look back. You can see the tears, swimming in her eyes, about ready to _burst_. You gasp, take one step forward, because for one moment, you’re _stupid_ enough to run after her. But by the time you’ve found your balance, she’s already gone.

* * *

Photographs rain your desk, and they’re mostly of her. Her and you, or just her, and she’s _happy_. Which _shakes_ you. You’re _shocked_. You’re shocked to witness her smile, to see her happy, laughter in her eyes and her lovely face, and this is who she was when you first met her. Her hands were what pried you away from the work, the obsession, the craze; the questions revolving around the ghosts of your Mother and Father.

She introduced you to the colours of life. To booze, to parties, to art, to love, family, friends, to doing nothing at all, and every other perfect elements which Humans so need in order to survive. She was your friend, your first, your best–

Sam was your happiness, and you _killed_ it.

You cry, tugging at your hair, and letting out gasps of air. 

Fuck it all. You miss her. You miss her so much, your _teeth_ hurt.

* * *

‘Good progress,’ the nurse says, finishing with the bandage.

She isn’t avoiding your gaze today. Perhaps, maybe, she’s confident in your recovery.

‘How’s the drinking?’

‘Better.’

‘Oh.’ She pauses. ‘Well. Keep this up, then you’ll be back to work in no time.’

‘How long will that be?’

‘A month, tops.’

Work. The race. Bow and arrow in your hand, the stench of burnt flesh surrounding you, the very fear of being chased by ancient _monsters_.

You exhale, relieved for your freedom. ‘At last.’

* * *

When she does eventually return to London, she returns to _you_. 

The door opens, and she smells of something sweet, and her smile wavers only slightly. ‘You know,’ she laughs, ‘I would’ve _freaked_ if you had left, otherwise I’d’ve had to have slept on the streets. I don’t have anywhere else to crash. D’you mind?’

You blink.

‘Um.’

‘I’ll take that as a _yes_ , then.’

She grins. She grins for you, and it’s been too long since you last saw her this joyful.

* * *

‘How are you?’

‘ _Wonderful_.’ She throws herself onto the settee, looks up at you, and her eyes grow distant for a second. There is a pause. A long, noticable pause, and you don’t have the energy to shatter it. You don’t want to. Looking at her, enjoying her presence, it’s all you’ve wanted for the past few weeks. Then, Sam sighs, and, ‘Okay. I’ve been okay.’

‘Good.’

‘You?’

‘Yeah. Good. Okay.’

Sam nods. ‘Okay.’

‘How long do you intend on staying?’

‘Only a few days. Why?’ She stands. _Panics_. ‘I _can_ go elsewhere.’

‘No, don’t do that. Things are just a little cluttered at the moment. I’ve been packing, you see.’

‘What?’

It’s like lightning. It _strikes_ Sam to the centre of her core. _You are_ ** _packing_** _._ Which only means one horrible thing: you are leaving. You are leaving _her_. And you are leaving her for an uncertain amount of time, and you are leaving her after everything that’s happened, and you are _fucking leaving_ her when she has _just_ come back and–

_‘No_.’ She speaks so determined, so harshly, as if that single word might change your mind.

But it won’t. You have to move on.

You have to push _forward_.

‘Yes,’ you say, soft. ‘Please, let me tell you about my plans.’

‘Since _when_?’

You backtrack, confused. Since when did you plan to _leave_? ‘While you were absent,’ you cruelly remind her, and she glances away so quickly, you’re _certain_ you saw _hatred_ somewhere. ‘We went through a great deal on Yamatai. I’m glad you went away. It gave you time to reflect, and hopefully rest. I need to do the same.’

‘No.’

‘Sam–’

‘Fuck off. Fuck _you_.’

She doesn’t mean that, but it still stings.

‘I can’t _stay_ ,’ you reply.

‘But–’ she stops. Inhales sharply. Braces herself, because she can’t control the words spiralling out of her mouth. _She’s losing control_. ‘I’m _home_ now. Lara, I’m better. I promise.’ She widens her eyes, and smiles a little. ‘Is it _me_? Is that why you’re going away? Lara, _please_. Listen to me: I’m _better_. You don’t need to be away from me, it’s not–I don’t want you to–Why the _FUCK_ now? I came back, because I miss you so _much_ , and I–Lara, don’t leave me–if you leave me, I don’t know what I’ll–I don’t know _what’s going to happen to me if you go_.’

She covers her face with her hands, hiding her tears, hiding _herself_ , and you’re _mortified_.

Oh, God, what have you _done_ to her?

‘I’m sorry,’ she gasps. Looks at you, wide eyed, defeated, ‘I’m so _fucking_ sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

‘Don’t talk like that.’ 

You reach out for her.

She steps back.

Afraid. Afraid _for_ you.

‘I shouldn’t have–’ she breathes, lowers her voice, ‘–I shouldn’t have come home to you.’

_Home_. It holds so much sin and hope behind it, you’re at a loss for words.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers, making you _bleed_.

_Don’t_. But the word doesn’t quite make it out, and you struggle, you panic, and you’re _overwhelmed_ by the fact you shall _lose_ her _again_ , and you can’t, you won’t, you _can’t_ let that happen, and so you _grab_ her, press her body into yours, look at her, let her shudder in your arms, and fight you off simultaneously, her breaths harsh and terrified, her heart like a hammer against your chest, weighing you, _hurting_ and 

Stop.

You kiss her. 

You _kiss_ her. Slow. _Almost steady_. Then, one of you retreats, breathes the other in. Kiss again, this time clumsy and frantic. Her fingers knot in your hair, and you moan at the sensation, as if relieved, as if you can’t believe _it’s taking you both this long_. You can still taste blood, dirt, and ash in her mouth; her tongue is hot between your lips, and she pulls at your jacket, pushing her chest up against yours, _demanding_ more.

It is startling how easily you lose yourself in her. 

* * *

Kisses. Maybe, they are all you’ve needed. She kisses your naked skin, your breasts, your thighs, your face, and you _let_ her, because you _want_ her, because only she can make the pain go away, and only she can make it all better, and only she is _so_ important. 

You’re tangled in each other. Aching. She is quiet while you take her, and she clings onto you desperately when she comes, wet in your palm, and trembling. You kiss her, and she kisses you, and your breath hitches when it’s your turn again. She makes love to you so _gently_. So unlike her kisses and her anger, she’s just _gentle_ with you.

When you begin to feel yourself get closer, you aren’t quiet. You don’t realise how vocal you are, knocking your head back when her tongue dives into you again, and you cry out. You grab the pillow, squeezing it tight, and let go. Tears stain your face, and you can feel her breath, warm and soft, on your cheeks when she kisses it all away.

‘I love you,’ is all you can tell her.

‘Shh,’ you only realise, then, that she’s crying too.

* * *

This time, she helps you to sleep.

Holds your hand. Wraps her leg around yours, strokes your cheek, kisses your forehead.

_Loves_ you.

* * *

This time, you are there when she wakes up, screaming into the night.

Fighting something invisible. Like a _possessed_ child. You grab her fists, tell the very same as you did before–

_Look at_ ** _me_**.

She does, just as before. She looks at you. 

And it all slows. Everything. She looks at you, and doesn’t look away, and you _ease_ her. Nobody will find her here, nobody will try to hurt her, and she is _safe_. 

With you, she is _safe_ , and she knows it. 

She breathes again.

Kisses you, so delicately. 

As if terrified she might just _tear_ you to pieces.

* * *

You rid of the alcohol. Every last drop.

For her. For yourself. For the lives you shred apart on the island.

You do what your Father couldn’t. 

* * *

‘At least,’ she murmurs, embracing you close, _holding_ onto you for whatever short time is left, ‘Come back home.’

_To me_ , you hear her unspoken words.

_Come back home to me_.

It’s enough to make you hide your face into the crook of her neck.

‘I will _try_.’

At least.

Neither of you let go. Not until the very last second.


End file.
